Caris sat with Mair at the end, holding her hand, not caring if anyone disapproved. To ease her torment, she gave her a tiny amount of the euphoric drug Mattie had taught her to make from poppies. Mair still coughed, but it did not hurt her so much. After a coughing fit, her breathing would be easier for a short while, and she could talk. “Thank you for that night in Calais,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t really enjoy it, but I was in heaven.”

Caris tried not to cry. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted.”

“You loved me, though, in your own way. I know that.”

She coughed again. When the fit ended, Caris wiped the blood from her lips.

“I love you,” Mair said, and closed her eyes.

Caris let the tears come, then, not caring who saw or what they thought. She watched Mair, through a watery film, as she grew paler and breathed more shallowly, until at last her breathing stopped.

Caris remained where she was, on the floor beside the mattress, holding the hand of the corpse. Mair was still beautiful, even like this, white and forever still. It occurred to Caris that one other person loved her as Mair had, and that was Merthin. How strange that she had rejected his love, too. There was something wrong with her, she thought; some malformation of the soul that prevented her from being like other women, and embracing love gladly.

Later that night, the four children of Mark Webber died; and so did Old Julie.

Caris was distraught. Was there nothing she could do? The plague was spreading fast and killing everyone. It was like living in a prison and wondering which of the inmates would be next to go to the gallows. Was Kingsbridge to be like Florence and Bordeaux, with bodies in the streets? Next Sunday there would be a market on the green outside the cathedral. Hundreds of people from every village within walking distance would come to buy and sell and mingle with the townspeople in churches and taverns. How many would go home fatally ill? When she felt like this, excruciatingly helpless up against terrible forces, she understood why people threw up their hands and said everything was controlled by the spirit world. But that had never been her way.

Whenever a member of the priory died there was always a special burial service, involving all the monks and nuns, with extra prayers for the departed soul. Both Mair and Old Julie had been well loved, Julie for her kind heart and Mair for her beauty, and many of the nuns wept. Madge’s children were included in the funeral, with the result that several hundred townspeople came. Madge herself was too ill to leave the hospital.

They all gathered in the graveyard under a slate-grey sky. Caris thought she could smell snow in the cold north wind. Brother Joseph said the graveside prayers, and six coffins were lowered into the ground.

A voice in the crowd asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. “Are we all going to die, Brother Joseph?”

Joseph was the most popular of the monk-physicians. Now close to sixty years old and with no teeth, he was intellectual but had a warm bedside manner. Now he said: “We’re all going to die, friend, but none of us knows when. That’s why we must always be prepared to meet God.”

Betty Baxter spoke up, ever the probing questioner. “What can we do about the plague?” she said. “It is the plague, isn’t it?”

“The best protection is prayer,” Joseph said. “And, in case God has decided to take you regardless, come to church and confess your sins.”

Betty was not so easily fobbed off. “Merthin says that in Florence people stayed in their homes to avoid contact with the sick. Is that a good idea?”

“I don’t think so. Did the Florentines escape the plague?”

Everyone looked at Merthin, standing with Lolla in his arms. “No, they didn’t escape,” he said. “But perhaps even more would have died if they had done otherwise.”

Joseph shook his head. “If you stay at home, you can’t go to church. Holiness is the best medicine.”

Caris could not remain silent. “The plague spreads from one person to another,” she said angrily. “If you stay away from other people, you’ve got a better chance of escaping infection.”

Prior Godwyn spoke up. “So the women are the physicians now, are they?”

Caris ignored him. “We should cancel the market,” she said. “It would save lives.”

“Cancel the market!” he said scornfully. “And how would we do that? Send messengers to every village?”

“Shut the city gates,” she replied. “Block the bridge. Keep all strangers out of the town.”

“But there are already sick people in town.”

“Close all taverns. Cancel meetings of all guilds. Prohibit guests at weddings.”

Merthin said: “In Florence they even abandoned meetings of the city council.”

Elfric spoke up. “Then how are people to do business?”

“If you do business, you’ll die,” Caris said. “And you’ll kill your wife and children, too. So choose.”

Betty Baxter said: “I don’t want to close my shop – I’d lose a lot of money. But I’ll do it to save my life.” Caris’s hopes lifted at this, but then Betty dashed them again. “What do the doctors say? They know best.” Caris groaned aloud.

Prior Godwyn said: “The plague has been sent by God to punish us for our sins. The world has become wicked. Heresy, lasciviousness and disrespect are rife. Men question authority, women flaunt their bodies, children disobey their parents. God is angry, and His rage is fearsome. Don’t try to run from His justice! It will find you, no matter where you hide.”

“What should we do?”

“If you want to live, you should go to church, confess your sins, pray and lead a better life.”

Caris knew it was useless to argue, but all the same she said: “A starving man should go to church, but he should also eat.”

Mother Cecilia said: “Sister Caris, you need say no more.”

“But we could save so many-”

“That will do.”

“This is life and death!”

Cecilia lowered her voice. “But no one is listening to you. Drop it.”

Caris knew Cecilia was right. No matter how long she argued, people would believe the priests, not her. She bit her lip and said no more.

Blind Carlus started a hymn, and the monks began to process back into the church. The nuns followed, and the crowd dispersed.

As they passed from the church into the cloisters, Mother Cecilia sneezed.

Every evening Merthin put Lolla to bed in the room at the Bell. He would sing to her, or recite poems, or tell her stories. This was the time when she talked to him, asking him the strangely unexpected questions of a three-year-old, some childish, some profound, some hilarious.

Tonight, while he was singing a lullaby, she burst into tears.

He asked her what the trouble was.

“Why did Dora die?” she wailed.

So that was it. Madge’s daughter, Dora, had taken to Lolla. They had spent time together, playing counting games and plaiting one another’s hair. “She had the plague,” Merthin said.

“My mama had the plague,” Lolla said. She switched to the Italian she had not quite forgotten. “La moria grande.”

“I had it, too, but I got better.”

“So did Libia.” Libia was the wooden doll she had carried all the way from Florence.

“Did Libia have the plague?”

“Yes. She sneezed, felt hot and had spots, but a nun made her better.”

“Tm very pleased. That means she’s safe. Nobody gets it twice.”

“You’re safe, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” That seemed like a good note on which to end. “Go to sleep, now.”

“Goodnight,” she said.

He went to the door.

“Is Bessie safe?” she said.

“Go to sleep.”

“I love Bessie.”

“That’s nice. Goodnight.” He closed the door.

Downstairs, the parlour was empty. People were nervous about going to crowded places. Despite what Godwyn said, Caris’s message had gone home.